


you want to die for love (you always have)

by romantiser



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Light Angst, M/M, Panic Attacks, been in my drafts for like a year, so i do apologise for the AWFUL writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:26:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23988088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romantiser/pseuds/romantiser
Summary: His breath catches—Ronan steps closer; tentatively.There’s silence; the weighted kind. It’s screaming at him, shouting: this is who you are now, this fragile mess of contradictions is who you are, what you became to survive in a cruel world meant to break you. One broken boy is standing in front of another broken boy, both trying to find their missing pieces in each other.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 5
Kudos: 61





	you want to die for love (you always have)

Anger is an old friend of Adam’s. 

He can feel the uneasiness of it slipping through his fingertips, losing his grip on reality as Ronan steps into the room. It’s a poison infecting his lungs, making it harder to breathe in the oxygen that he needs to take a breath. It burns his insides into ashes, scorching every inch of him until he feels the fire consuming him, taking every broken piece and letting it turn to dust at his feet. 

His breath catches—

Ronan steps closer; tentatively. 

There’s silence; the weighted kind. It’s screaming at him, shouting: this is who you are now, this fragile mess of contradictions is who you are, what you became to survive in a cruel world meant to break you. One broken boy is standing in front of another broken boy, both trying to find their missing pieces in each other. 

He doesn’t know how to describe it. 

That feeling where your body doesn’t quite feel like your own. Where the ground underneath your feet begins to fade until there’s only white noise left in its place. It’s hard to distinguish reality from the grief that’s choking Adam with its iron fist, squeezing every last bit of breath he has left.

“Parrish.” 

He can hear a heartbeat. A soft hum that isn’t his own, echoing through his skin as it pulses through his fingertips. Adam’s head is throbbing; a numb, sickening bubble that wraps itself around his mouth, and it’s getting harder to breathe. One, two, three—

“Parrish.” 

The voice is harsher now. Panicked. Desperate. It’s scratching at the surface, wanting to be left back in. But there’s something else, too. A memory, maybe. Or a figment of his imagination because Ronan is standing so close he can feel his warm breath on the back of his neck. 

Adam takes a breath.

It does little to alleviate the dull pain behind his sternum, burying his entire frame in a singular numbness that begins to spread; almost as though someone has reached their hands between his ribs and began, ever so gently, to break them apart. As if someone has their hands inside his chest, twisting his heart so when it beats, it’s out of rhythm with the rest of him.

Except he knows it’s all in his head. 

It almost makes the pain unbearable. 

(Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe.) 

A short, sharp inhale of the cold air that blankets the room, unwelcoming and piercing as the world grows duller. It’s a moment later that Adam can practically feel the worry emanate from Ronan, reacting to the admission that he’s been a kept prisoner, chained in his mind like a permanent scar of a past he can’t shed.

Because this is who Adam is now. 

He catches sight of his reflection, but a stranger stares back. 

His posture drops at the sight of his sullen cheeks, shoulders sagging in defeat; Adam’s no longer the same. This Adam is new; he’s unhinged at times, a manic edge that unsettles Ronan, a caged animal ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Prepared to run until his legs are numb, lungs aching from exertion and Henrietta a distant memory.

Ronan clears his throat; everything falls away. 

Until there’s only Ronan left. 

The floorboards creak.

Another reminder that this isn’t his home. 

It never was; never could be.

Does a house become a home when you live there? Or is a house only a home when there’s laughter, light, life and love? All he knows is this: these four walls are not his home. It sinks into his stomach and settles there as fragments of memories he can’t wipe away. His house never was a home; only a trailer with a trail of shattered hearts and mottled purple bruises hidden under off-white shirts. His home isn’t a home, but he craves the familiarity of it almost as much as he wants the freedom of running away and starting over where no one knows his name. 

“Don’t,” Adam says, but he doesn’t sound like himself.

His voice is too cold, detached; like it doesn’t belong to him.

His eyes flicker to the worn mattress in the corner of the room, guiding his eyes to the one spot that no one else knows about. He has a bag—something his mother gave him once, years ago—filled with everything he owns; everything that he’s bought with his own money. It’s not much, but Adam has never been materialistic. After all, there are more desirable things in the world, like the ability to choose what path to take. 

Or in Adam’s case, having a choice at all.

He checks the bag every night before he falls asleep.

He doesn’t imagine ever really needing it. Henrietta is where he needs to be; to finish school, to help Gansey, to work until his fingers bleed, to grieve for what could have been, to comfort Blue and well, then there’s Ronan. But if there ever comes a time he needs to run, to escape, to hide, he finds comfort in knowing that he can make a quick getaway, even if it does make him feel like a coward.

He shuffles away, turning to Ronan.

Ronan’s wary of him; like he’s waiting for the lightning to strike.

There’s something already brewing in the air. Adam’s pacing back and forth, shoes pounding against the cold floors, echoing, echoing, echoing. It’s in his tense shoulders and in the way his jaw clenches every time Ronan tries to edge closer; one step forward, two steps back. Adam is losing his grip on sanity, on the world between what’s real and what’s not but he can’t ask for help, not with this.

He thinks of Persephone; a whisper in his ear.

“Concentrate, Adam,” comes a mantra.

Adam remembers the solitude.

He thinks of the loneliness that consumed him before; nights spent alone. 

But here, with Ronan, the smell of gasoline, the Henrietta sunset rising in front of him, it almost feels like he’s not alone anymore. Maybe this is what Fate is. Finding a glimmer of hope in a life that’s destined for more. He thinks of Gansey, of Noah and Blue, of Persephone, of Ronan, Ronan, Ronan and remembers what it feels like to be alive. He catches hold of his wrist, seeking out the steady pulse that jumps; one, two, three, four, five, six. 

Ronan is still there staring at him. “Parrish —” 

Ronan’s voice is soft; a paradox to the black ink that binds him. 

Most days, Adam drifts in and out like a tide; happiness is just as fleeting, just as unexpected. He bounces from exhilaration to delirium to depression, like it’s a game that he needs to win. Other days Adam can almost feel nothing at all. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend that he doesn’t care because if he doesn’t care, then he won’t feel this gaping hole in his chest that won’t stop bleeding. Adam won’t be able to feel his heart quiver with the regret that borrows its way into the torn muscle. He won’t be able to miss something he never had to begin with like a sewn off limb, the phantom pain suffocating him. 

(Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe—) 

The room is too small, the smell of Ronan like a hand prying his ribcage apart until his chest burns. This isn’t what he wanted. Ronan takes another step towards him, but Adam pushes himself away from his desk, storming out the room, a trail of destruction left in his wake.

Henrietta welcomes him with a faint breeze. 

This is his home, the place that he grew up in, but Adam doesn’t feel like he belongs to the dirt and rust embedded into his fingernails. It reminds him of everything he doesn’t have; of everything he wishes he could. He thinks of his mother; the way her eyes refuse to meet his, cowering in the face of confrontation, the resemblance of their faces.

He doesn’t think of his father. 

He doesn’t have one. 

He opens his eyes, scanning the sparse area around him. He bites down against the fear that’s clawing up into his chest, burying it under the weight of the world that sits on his shoulders, as a door slams behind him. 

“Parrish.”

He wants to scream.

To shout; to be anyone other than himself.

He thinks of Noah; envious that he can disappear into thin air without a word of warning. Adam craves the exhilaration of it; the lack of anything physical tethering to a place he doesn’t want to be. Isn’t that what everyone wants? To leave from where they’re not wanted?

“Parrish.” 

He should have expected this.

He should have expected Ronan to follow him; should’ve expected Ronan to put up a fight when it came down to it. He marks it down as something he’s still getting used to, having friends that will have his back regardless of the consequences. But it’s more than that; of course, it is. Adam isn’t ready to admit it.

“Parrish.” 

Adam whips his head around. “Would you stop saying my name like that?” 

A pause, and then, “Adam.” 

It’s softer, quieter against the calm skies above them. The soft breeze brushing up against their skin only moments before has stopped now, and there’s a lull to Henrietta that Adam hasn’t felt in a while. It allows the anger, the panic and everything in between to slip from his shoulders, the tension melting away into nothingness. 

It allows him to breathe. 

A moment that’s given to him freely.

“Gansey is a miserable dick again,” Ronan tells him in nothing more than a murmur. “I think he finally knows that Glendower can never love him back in the way he wants. How fucking tragic.” 

It’s nothing, not really, but before he can even stop it, the corner of Adam’s mouth twitches up at the words. It’s something sane amid the storm continually brewing inside of him, tearing him apart piece by piece. It’s something to grip onto, to let himself drift towards to break himself away from his inner turmoil. 

Ronan calms the raging storm inside him. 

Maybe it’s his larger than life presence, forcing all other topics and feelings aside until there’s only his left. But when Ronan’s around, Adam feels the weight of the world slip from his shoulders. He forgets that his bones ache from exhaustion or that the bags underneath his eyes are so dark he wonders if it’s dirt, too. He forgets about the way he hates his reflection, too scared to see a shell of himself staring back; if he can even recognise himself anymore. 

“Sounds like Gansey.” 

Ronan huffs out a breath. “Of course it fucking does.” 

Adam wants to say thank you, to show he’s grateful for Ronan’s presence; to show he’s thankful for the simple fact that Ronan doesn’t ask any unwanted questions. He wants to grab Ronan’s t-shirt in his hand and drag him closer; so close that he’ll be able to see every single speck of colour in Ronan’s eyes, to feel Ronan’s ragged breath on his skin, to share a charged moment before their lips touch. Adam wants a lot of things, but there’s a difference between want and deserve. 

Ronan glances at him, and smiles. 

(He knows. He knows. He knows—) 

Adam doesn’t want to become his father’s son.

He can’t take and take and take without acknowledging what comes next. He can’t take anything without giving something in return. Love is supposed to be unconditional; a reflex, a chemical reaction, a memory maybe. All Adam has ever known has torn him apart, the scars a permanent reminder that love doesn’t come easy to him; it never has. 

“Adam.” 

Ronan is standing so close. 

He can practically hear the hum of Ronan’s chest; he savours the simplicity of it. Two boys standing next to each other with barely any space separating them; if Adam reached his fingertips out, they’d be holding hands. When Adam thinks of love, he believes it must be a little like this: the softness of the sharp edges on Ronan’s face, the lightness of Adam’s chest, Ronan, Ronan, Ronan—

“Adam,” comes as a whisper.

He closes his eyes at the gentleness of Ronan’s voice.

It’s something saved just for him. All those sharp edges that Ronan uses as a defence mechanism falls away in Adam’s presence. Like he wants to welcome Adam into every single part of him. All Adam has to do is reach out and grab it, arms outstretched, heart open. Imagining his hands on Ronan sends his heart spiralling, and it takes everything in him not to just give in there and then, considering it’s what he’s wanted for so long that he can barely remember when it started.

“I have a shift at Boyd’s soon.”

(Thank you, thank you, thank you.) 

Ronan doesn’t say anything else; doesn’t need to. 

He edges towards Adam, craving the proximity of Adam’s skin on his. It’s easy like this: Ronan doesn’t have to pretend. He’s aware that Adam knows and it’s as simple as that. Adam knows; Ronan finds he doesn’t care half as much as he thought he would. It’s an admission without actually admitting the words out loud and isn’t that what love is supposed to be? To feel known by the only person you can truly see?

“I can drop you off.”

He bumps his shoulder against Ronan’s; a slow, deliberate move that has his pulse jumping out of his skin at the feel of Ronan against him. There’s no spark, no fireworks; no grand declaration of the tension that’s been building between them for months. 

Adam knows; Ronan won’t ever admit to it.

Somehow it feels more like home than he’s ever been before. 

“Thank you,” but it sounds more like a confession. 

(I love you, is what he doesn’t say.) 

Ronan only shrugs. “Whatever, man.” 

(I love you, is what he doesn’t say back.)

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr dot com](http://birminghams.tumblr.com)


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